. I will carry one gun.
You have yours. There is no need of more. What tiger shall stand against
thee?"

He was marked down by a little water-hole at the head of a ravine,
full-gorged and half asleep in the May sunlight. He was walked up like a
partridge, and he turned to do battle for his life. Bukta made no motion
to raise his rifle, but kept his eyes on Chinn, who met the shattering
roar of the charge with a single shot--it seemed to him hours as he
sighted--which tore through the throat, smashing the backbone below the
neck and between the shoulders. The brute couched, choked, and fell, and
before Chinn knew well what had happened Bukta bade him stay still while
he paced the distance between his feet and the ringing jaws.

"Fifteen," said Bukta. "Short paces. No need for a second shot, Sahib.
He bleeds cleanly where he lies, and we need not spoil the skin. I said
there would be no need of these, but they came--in case."

Suddenly the sides of the ravine were crowned with the heads of Bukta's
people--a force that could have blown the ribs out of the beast had
Chinn's shot failed; but their guns were hidden, and they appeared as
interested beaters, some five or six waiting the word to skin. Bukta
watched the life fade from the wild eyes, lifted one hand, and turned on
his heel.

"No need to show that we care," said he. "Now, after this, we can kill
what we choose. Put out your hand, Sahib."

Chinn obeyed. It was entirely steady, and Bukta nodded. "That also
was your custom. My men skin quickly. They will carry the skin to
cantonments. Will the Sahib come to my poor village for the night and,
perhaps, forget that I am his officer?"

"But those men--the beaters. They have worked hard, and perhaps--"

"Oh, if they skin clumsily, we will skin them. They are my people. In
the lines I am one thing. Here I am another."

This was very true. When Bukta doffed uniform and reverted to the
fragmentary dress of his own people, he left his civilisation of drill
in the next world. That night, after a little talk with his subjects,
he devoted to an orgie; and a Bhil orgie is a thing not to be safely
written about. Chinn, flushed with triumph, was in the thick of it,
but the meaning of the mysteries was hidden. Wild folk came and pressed
about his knees with offerings. He gave his flask to the elders of the
village. They grew eloquent, and wreathed him about with flowers. Gifts
and loans, not all seemly, were thrust upon him,